The Thorn of My Island Rose

Totally catch your drift, Dalai Lama. Might I also add: or try working at your desk; or try doing yoga/exercising; or try eating; or try watching a movie; or try, you know, anything. Spend any time in the Caribbean and you will realize deeply that no matter how small, the presence of a single mosquito most definitely does make a difference. Well, at least for some of us, that is.

There are two kinds of island people: those who are effected by mosquito bites and the lucky souls who are not. I am the kind who is, and my boyfriend, David, is not. Therefore, while he is a reasonably empathetic person, he is unable to relate to the unrelenting exasperation that mosquitoes bring to my life. And while I would never wish anything horrible upon him, I do yearn that for just one damn day, he could experience what it’s like to be so fucking itchy all the time. Then he would perhaps understand the zeal with which I wield my electrocution racket and not get quite as perturbed by The Crazy blazing behind my pupils.

We recently had some long overdue rains and while the dry cisterns and island foliage are grateful, the rain also hatched a plague of mosquitoes in its wake*. The swarms of mosquitoes that surround me each time I go outdoors are outrageous, to say the very least. The rise in their population feels so ridiculously unreasonable, like something out of a Hitchcock movie. The kind of unreasonable where you can do nothing but raise your hands heavenward and scream, Why, God, why??!!!! My body (which includes my face, just FYI) is covered in red blotches – bumps that urgently demand to be scratched, yet in unjust irony, once they are scratched, there isn’t any relief, they just get itchier.

I’m looking very Woogie-like these days…

*Fun factoid: mosquito eggs can withstand the harshest of conditions and have the ability to lay dormant for months if the site they were laid upon dries out. Once they are moistened again with water – ie. rain – they’re reactivated to hatch and grow into the bloodsucking bastards we all hate.

Forgive me, as I know we have lamented the mosquito issue before on this site here, here, here, here, and even here, but the fact of the matter is that mosquitoes are a pervasive part of island living, one that rears its intolerable head in waves, reminding you that you will never be free of their oppression and thus, we must all chime in again from time to time.

You can’t run. You can’t hide.

And yes, I’ve heard and tried nearly all the suggestions to repel them, though many I can’t/choose not to partake in. For one, I switched years ago to using more natural products and refuse to succumb to the most wicked of toxins such as OFF!, especially since I live here full-time and don’t consider it a permanent lifestyle change I’m willing to make. Did you know that 60% of what you put ON your body goes INTO your body? Yeah. So chemicals that melt plastic and nail polish are not something I’m ok with rubbing on my skin. Additionally, airborne sprays such as Lysol, Baygon, coils, etc. are off limits for me, as I don’t want that poison in my lungs on the regs.

So, I’m left with the basics for protection: gin w/ an essential oil blend, clothing, screens, outdoor zapper machines, monitoring of standing water, and my trusty electric rackets. Feeling particularly forlorn the other day, I came to the realization of just how much mosquitoes (and their punk ass cousins, the sand fleas/flies/no-see-ums) shape my day-to-day existence to the brink of neuroticism:

My electrocution rackets are my most prized possessions. I have one in every room of my house (I mean it – the bathrooms, the living room, the kitchen, the bedroom, the office – I am fully covered), and I never leave the screened-in safety of the indoors without one within arm’s reach. Though I do wish there was an easier way to make the racket more socially acceptable to carry in public. I spend considerable mental time wondering why no one has invented a purse-sized version and contemplating that if it was scientifically possible to replace one of my hands with a racket, could I realistically do it? My current hands are terrible at catching mosquitoes, thus rendering them near useless to me as a pair.

My Precious

I have gorgeous vistas around and near my house that look (in photos) like the most ideal, serene place you could dream up for yoga. However, though I do yoga every day, I never use these spaces because my current level of zen is not strong enough to overcome the incessant buzzing in my ears as I practice.

I have an outdoor shower only which means I have to leave the safety of The Great Screened Indoors at least once per day to not smell like a sweaty B.O. monster. Come daylight, the mosquitoes are in full force, so I wake up every damn day (yes, even on the weekends lately) at 4:45am just to be able to shower before daybreak and avoid my bare ass being covered in a thousand bites. You know what’s not attractive? Being the girl in public places who can’t stop scratching her butt.

True story.

I am a tyrant about my screen doors, obsessively following visitors around, closing doors before they can even get their bodies all the way in or out. It’s obnoxious. I’m not sure why people even visit me anymore.

My compulsion to kill all the mosquitoes gets intense at times (an understatement) and seems to be a major outlet for any latent anger I carry. I have scared a few people with my murderous fervor and have broken 3 wine glasses, 1 coffee mug, and a jar to date due to my deranged, single-minded swinging of my racket.

I often stay holed up inside during times I’d rather be outdoors, staring longingly at how nice it looks outside, but I am stopped in my tracks by the hordes of mosquitoes hovering outside my screen door.

Worst happy hour date EVER.

I will avoid certain restaurants/bars at certain times of the day due to them being notoriously buggy, no matter how good their happy hour is.

Whenever I see beautiful photos on Instagram of people enjoying the great outdoors, all I can think about it is, How is that person not being eaten alive?How can they look so serene outdoors at sunset?

Every time I make plans to go anywhere during the deadly hours of dawn and dusk, it is always a toss up about how I should dress, weighing the lesser of two evils – would I rather be uncomfortably hot and sweaty but fully covered, or itchy AF and angry with my flesh exposed to the breeze?

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I could go on and on, but I’ll spare you further whining. Every rose has its thorn. When it comes to island life, mosquitoes and sand flies are the thorniest of thorns for me. Most of the time, I feel like it’s still worth it to live here and deal with them. Most of the time. Perhaps it’s a part of the Buddhist training I never signed up for – a daily battle that requires monumental control to not lose my shit over. It helps to gripe about it sometimes. Thanks for listening. The comments section below is yours to gripe in, if ya need it.

Written By:

Chrissann Nickel

Current Rock of Residence:

Virgin Gorda, BVI

Island Girl Since:

2006

Originally Hails From:

California

Chrissann’s home rock in the British Virgin Islands feels bigger to her than it actually is. Though after spending five years on a teensy one acre island, the current 13-mile long rock she’s residing on now IS ginormous, at least by comparison. As with everything in the tropics, it’s all about perspective.

Once upon a time she used to care about things like matching her purse to her pumps but these days, any activities that require a bra and shoes go under careful, is-this-even-worth-it consideration. If island life has taught her anything at all, it’s that few things are more rewarding than time spent in the pool with a cocktail in hand.

As the Editor in Chief of this site, she spends her days working from home with her blue-eyed sidekick, Island Dog Diego, writing, editing, and cultivating content in the hopes of bringing some laughter and lightness to her fellow island souls. She recently published her first children’s book, When You’re a Baby Who Lives on a Rock, and is pretty pumped to share it with all of the island mamas out there. Her days off are typically spent boating, hiking, and meeting up with the neighborhood’s imperious roadside goats, who she shamelessly bribes into friendship. While normalcy was never listed as one of her special skills, Caribbean life may indeed be responsible for new levels of madness. She attributes at least a smidge of her insanity to the amount of time she spends talking to drunk people.

If you’re somehow still reading this and feel inclined to find out more about this “Chrissann” of which we speak, you can also take a gander at her eponymous website or follow her daily escapades on Instagram @womanonarock.